


pyrrhic victory

by emrys (livingshitpost)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, CT-7567 | Rex Needs a Hug, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Crying, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Exile, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Men Crying, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Post-Episode: s07e12 Victory and Death (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), Post-Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Star Wars: Rebels, Self-Exile, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) Spoilers, Star Wars: The Clone Wars Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/pseuds/emrys
Summary: Rex has dealt with nightmares all his life. He quickly learned to be all but silent while he recollected himself; he didn't want to rob his men of the rest they needed so badly.It's no wonder he feels so lonely in the silence of his single-bed motel room.
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex & Everyone
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	pyrrhic victory

Clones rarely wake up screaming. They're trained from a very young age not to do so, no matter how much their nightmares terrify them. Instead, they wake up shaking, trembling, coiled like springs and ready to pounce at anything that might move in the darkness. Many of them don't even sit up, after nearly ten years of sleeping in tubes in the walls.

It could easily be considered unusual, then, when Rex scrambles up onto his elbows with the names of his brothers on his tongue.

His chest heaves with each breath. His strong shoulders are tight, and his head is heavy and aching. The scar from where his chip had been removed still hurts.

 _You're fine_ , he tells himself. _You're safe_. 

Well, not safe.

Maybe not even fine.

He lets out a small, choked gasp. He sits up in his low-bar motel bed and hugs one knee. His breathing comes quick and shallow, and he knows his shoulders are shaking, but that's fine. So long as he's quiet. He's dealt with nightmares all his life. He quickly learned to be all but silent while he recollected himself; he didn't want to rob his men of the rest they needed so badly.

But now his men are dead. He buried them himself.

Another sob wrenches itself painfully from his chest. 

The words of his brothers echo in his skull as his heart continues to pound against his ribs. _You don't believe me_ , Fives had cried, desperate to save the brothers he could. _Just like old times_ , Echo had said softly, not believing it. _You're in violation of Order 66_ , Jesse had said, voice as cold and as hard as durasteel, and just as unwilling to bend. And that wasn't even counting the brothers he hadn't seen fall; not Tup, or Hardcase, or Kix. Barely a fraction of the brothers he'd lost.

Rex has never had any particular problem calming down after a nightmare, but now there isn't anyone to put a hand on his shoulder and help him down from the adrenaline high. There's no soft Mando'a reassuring him that he isn't alone.

He _is_ alone. For the first time in his life, he is completely, truly alone.

He puts his head in his hands. His fingers run over the small, smooth scar on the side of his head. He curls them in the slightly grown-out fuzz of his hair. Shuddering, he takes in a breath, and lets it out with a few harsh cries. Tears stream down his face, and he leans forward, the knobs of his spine sticking out against his blacks. 

Soon he's bawling like a six-cycle-old cadet. It strikes him absently, dully, that he was physically thirteen back then. He's been alive for thirteen standard cycles now. Sure, he's an adult mentally, but with his childhood stripped away from him like that . . .

It's no wonder he feels so lonely in the silence of his single-bed motel room.

He grasps at his chest and shoulders, the fabric of his blacks clutched tightly in his fists. He wails up at the ceiling like a lone loth wolf howling for its pack. There's no response, of course, but the release is liberating in a way he didn't know existed. All he's ever known is how to lock his emotions into a box made from beskar and iron, tucking them away where they wouldn't hinder his ability to lead his men in battle.

But now his men are dead. He buried them himself. For the first time in his life, he is completely, truly alone.

His cries eventually die down, subsiding into sniveling whines as he wipes away the streaks of salty tears from his cheeks. He's more tired than he was when he went to bed the night before. His chest feels empty, like there's a dying star where his heart should be. Perhaps there is. Perhaps the grief will kill him.

He pushes the thought aside. _No point thinking like that_ , he tells himself. He forces himself to his feet and heads to the refresher to splash some cold water on his face. At least he can breathe a little easier.

(He tries not to feel guilty that his brothers aren't breathing at all.)

**Author's Note:**

> i know echo didn't Die (tht we know of) bt like . He's Still,, Not There. rex misses his lil bro


End file.
